Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
by Faelicia
Summary: Jarvan IV Lightshield knew only one way to surpass his father and grandfather before him. To do accomplish what they had failed: to find and slay a dragon. Not only did he fail in his two year quest, he brought the beast home, with him and installed her as his Champion and a member of the Demacian Elite Guard, but not before making more than a few enemies...
1. Dragonborn

Silent.

The house was silent, as it had been the day she arrived.

Shocked as she was, they placed her in this little hut without much of a struggle. The place was quaint, she supposed, and fit her needs well. As well as a two roomed cubicle could, of course, but nobody ever visited, so to her, it didn't matter much. Well, nobody except for him.

He'd show up sometimes in the dark of the night and knock—softly, just once. She would open the door and he would slip in without a word.

What occurred next was a wordless symphony of passion and lust, of groaning and moaning into the pregnant pause of midnight. She could never resist his advances. After all, he was the one who had saved her from a life of vengeance and hatred. With one swift trust, he so easily felled the beast that had been plaguing her nightmares, the one that consumed her mind with thoughts of revenge.

It was in this way that he also took her for the first time that very night, capturing her heart, her body, as easily as he'd slain the beast.

Yet as she was his, he was not hers, for he was of the people, for the people.

Prince of the people.

Defender of Justice.

One of the five, the Exemplar among the Might, the Light, the Sorrow, and the Seneschal.

Though she was one with them, she could never be one _of_ them. A Demacian.

Monster, they called her. The blood that ran through the beast that had ravaged the countryside was the same blood that ran through her veins. There was no denying what she was. Half a beast. They tolerated her, allowing her to stand by his side as a commander, a body guard, but never his lover.

They fancied some other, a hunter. Mistress to the beasts, though not a beast herself. She could merge with her beast with her powers, but there was never a doubt to what she really was.

A human.

Once, in a heated confrontation, the other laughed and snarled, "Quinn rhymes with win, and I'll always be the winner. You're no match, you creature."

It was hard to admit, but the latter was true.

He told her it wasn't so. That she was now his only, and no amount of beast could drive him away from her; but no amount of reassurance could ease the doubts in her mind.

Only the fleeting moments when he visited could quell the storm of self-loathing and unease in her tormented mind. When dawn inevitably came, he would be gone, as quickly and quietly as he had appeared.

Then her day would begin: standing at attention in court, so close, yet so far from her liege, acting as if they were mere acquaintances in front of the public.


	2. Martial Cadence

She was not his first by any mile.

In fact, by the time he met her, he was what many would consider a veteran in the luxury of women's delights. The term lady killer was hardly , a new term had to be coined just for His Majesty: The Lady Slayer. If one surveyed the frequent customers of Madam Rose's Ladies' In Waiting, they would have seen one not unlike the prince.

It wasn't until he met her, however, that he became a Dragon Slayer. Most knew him for the feat of actually slaying a dragon. He had killed one after all, the head displayed in the Royal Museum as proof of the feat. But few, if any, knew of the "slaying" occurred later that night.

He worked hard to keep it that way.

Illicit as it were, he could not stop himself from going back to her night after night.

There was something about her that was so perilously addicting.

At first it was the way they made love. So primitive and fiery, two blazes raging to overpower the other, yet growing, feeding the same flare, mounting larger and stronger with each touch until the flames burst into explosion.

If he were more in touch with his emotions, he would have realized that his affections for her transcended mere infatuation and lust. Nonetheless, the depths of his oblivion were matched only by his immense ego.

He could still remember their first encounter. It had only been a few years prior.

It was his newest quest for glory: to slay the dreaded fire-breathing beast that had been wreaking havoc on the countryside just south of the Great Barrier. With his hand-picked squad in tow, they had strut valiantly, proudly on their mission. But now the task had become entirely menial. Parading a squad through sand dunes of Shurima and the jungles of Kumungu had taken its toll. Jarvan IV was weary. His men were weary. Worst of all, it seemed they'd never find the beast.

Jarvan laid his weapon on the weapon rack, and sat down at the bar with a thud. He and his men had found a small town in the middle of this God forsaken garden and his men wasted no time hitting up the local saloon. They were probably the only visitors the town would get for the next year, and the townspeople were scrambling to meet their needs.

He sighed heavily, and watched as his men struggled to unload their baggage while the innkeepers of three different inns bickered over their potential "clients." Why they had three inns in this remote village, he didn't know, but for now he wanted just wanted to relax.

It had been almost seven months since they'd embarked on their journey, and it seemed all the leads to the mysterious beast had dried up. He hated to admit it, but the whole thing was quickly becoming a waste of time. Sure, there were some side quests they took up along the way, saving a small town from bandits, thwarting a werewolf, and raiding a secret Zaunian laboratory, but these feats were little compared to the task they set out for.

The embarrassment of having to return home empty handed was not an option. He grumbled and ordered a drink. Better make the best of this pit stop. It had been three weeks since they last saw a town, and he doubted they would find another any time soon. He lingered, hoping to hear some worthwhile gossip.

"Hey, didja hear? She took over that creepy ol' cabin! Holed 'erself up real good in there!"

"Gross. How dare that damn lizard Halfling invade our town! She should go back to her own kind! Those fire-breathing abominations!"

Now _this_ was news. He couldn't be completely sure, but Jarvan was pretty positive he knew exactly what kind of beast the townspeople were whispering about. He stood abruptly, and eased his way into the domain of the two speakers.

"What's this about a dragon?" he inquired, standing over the heads of the two men.

"None of your concern, stranger."

It seemed they were in need of some prompting. He slid two gold coins across the bar, as the two strangers grinned.

"Half dragon livin' in our town. Dun' quite remember whereabouts… memory's real foggy these days…"

Two more coins appeared.

"One league west o' here inna lil abandoned cottage near the waterfall. You'll find 'er there. Can't miss it."

Perfect. He had his prey. Curious, though; nobody had mentioned the terrorist was a half dragon. Either way, a dragon was a dragon, and he couldn't return empty handed.

The hunt was on.


	3. Twin Bite

She was lost. Cold. Hungry.

Eagerly tracking her prey, into the jungles of Kumungu had been a mistake.

Having grown up on the run, she should have been adept at the art of survival.

Alas, her father had been the one who had really kept them alive, fed them, protected them. Then her mother died of disease, and he began to unravel, worn by their lives lived as fugitives.

That was what really killed him.

Her father. Not the beast that had torn out his heart, but the expanding invisible hole that had been left there since the day of her mother's death.

Either way, she needed to kill him. Vengeance was her raison d'être. She had made it this far. There was no giving up now.

Her stomach rumbled, crying for sustenance.

Later, she told her stomach. She would feed it later. If she was lucky, a few more pastries could be snitched from the homes of the villagers. The cottage she had stumbled upon had but a few supplies, and she desperately needed more.

Shyvana sighed and lay down on the hard wood floor of her small shelter.

It was no use thinking about things now.

She would recoup in the morning and think up a plan. Not that they ever worked, but they made her feel better about her prospects.

This time it would work.

This time, for sure.


	4. Dragon Strike

The night was full by the time they arrived at the cottage.

They had left their horses at a small camp nearby and donned camouflage, masked their scent before they approached.

Dragons were notorious for their senses, or so he'd heard. Another thing he'd never admit was that his knowledge of things outside of Demacian politics was limited to what he could find in the Royal Archives.

He feigned awareness, of course, for nobody wanted to believe their beloved prince was as learned as your everyday citizen. Demacia had, after all, a mandatory public education.

Alas, he had come as prepared as he hoped. It would work. He had faith. He whistled a signal, and his men equipped their night vision goggles: new technology straight out of Zuan, smuggled out by his "associates" from a secret laboratory, for the two countries were not in the talks. An ally of an enemy is an enemy, of course.

Three more whistles would signal the charge. It was all planned out.

They would rush the cottage and confront the beast, give it a swift and timely end meted by Jarvan himself. He waited for the right opportunity.

One.

Two.

Three.

They charged, breaking the door of the cottage, Jarvan leading the front. He rushed in, lance raised, ready to strike, and – laid eyes on the most striking maiden he had ever seen.

Awoken by the charge, she was crouched in the corner, teeth bared, arms raised, and ready for combat. Clothed in a tight bodice with crimson hair braided into a deadly whip around her horns, she was an Amazon if he'd ever met one.

He hesitated. "Take her prisoner!" he commanded.

Surprisingly, she offered no resistance. "Stupid human!" she spat, "What have I done to you?"

"You're a dragon," he replied stiffly, "the one we've been looking for."

To his men, he ordered, "Put her on my mount. This beast rides with me. I'll guard our prize tonight."

She hissed in displeasure, but offered no retort.

Standing watch that night was dreadful. The night was particularly chilly, and the clouds threatened tears, odd for the climate. He looked over at her, shivering in her bounds near the campfire. The poor thing was turning an unusual shade of blue, and her lips were a deep violet.

"What's wrong Halfling? Can't stand the cold?"

In truth, he was freezing half to death, but he wasn't about to let her know, and the thought that another was suffering with him kept his mind off of his own chill.

"I have a name, you know. It's Shyvana" she muttered, "Dragons aren't good at dealing with the cold…"

He mentally kicked himself. Of course she'd have trouble coping! She was half a fire-breathing lizard for crying out loud! At this rate she would become a popsicle. He sighed, and for reasons unknown to him, he reached into his bagged and pulled out his coat, thrust it in her direction, and went back to tending the fire.

She stared at it eagerly and strained to scoot toward it, to no avail. She was, after all, bound to a tree. She whimpered, glaring at Jarvan for his torture.

Jarvan glanced up, and seeing the coat in the same state as he had left it, realized his error. "Ah… right. Sorry." He picked the coat up and gingerly laid it on her shoulders.

"Why bother?" Shyvana snapped.

"What?" Jarvan replied, startled that half-frozen reptile still had the energy to pick a fight.

"I said, why bother? You're just going to kill me, aren't you? Place my head on a plaque and frame it in some room with all the other treasures of your conquests."

Jarvan did not reply.

To be honest, he had no idea why he decided to take her prisoner instead of loping off her head. After all, what she had said was true. He did have a trophy room of sorts, filled with the heads of his most glorious hunts. He felt no reason to lie. He was just going to kill her eventually… right?

"Because… because it'd be a waste of a beautiful face of I killed you," stammered the prince.

Shyvana blushed the same shade as her hair.

"W-what about you? Why were you terrorizing the inhabitants of this town?!"

He needed to change the subject. Never before had he been so lackluster in speech, especially when talking to a lady.

"I wasn't!" she all but screamed.

Jarvan's men could be heard stirring in their sleep. He was lucky this handful was filled with deep sleepers.

"I was just looking for a place to stay while… while… whatever! A human like you, living your cushy life would never understand." She sat straighter, raising her voice higher and higher as she spoke.

"You're half a human yourself!" Jarvan contested, matching her pitch with his own baritone.

"Well you sure don't treat me like one! And what would you know; you've never had to live your live in hiding, even from your own kind! I did! From both kinds! Neither of my halves accept me, and now I'm stuck here yelling at some bumbling idiot when I should be hunting my father's killer!"

"Father's killer?"

Jarvan sat silently, pondering. Nobody had mentioned that the beast he was hunting might not have been the one he was looking for.

"I'm sorry," he finally muttered, unsure of what to say.

"Don't be. People just hate what they don't know. That's why we were hunted, I guess. The dragons hated the fact that my father took a human wife, and were afraid that our blood would become tainted and our secrets would get out, so they sent an assassin. But I'm going to get my revenge, and you're not going to stop me!"

The dragoness inhaled sharply, and, having vented her frustrations, slumped back down to her original state, appearing quite a bit calmer.

The prince ruminated. So there was more than one dragon out there, supposedly a whole tribe… If she was hunting another, then…

"Wait, Dragoness," Jarvan started, "Woul—"

"Shyvana," she corrected, "please call me Shyvana."

"Shyvana. Is this dragon you're hunting the same one whose been ravaging the countrysides?"

"I don't know. Just let me go, I'm not the one you want. I'm not even a full dragon," she pleaded.

The dragon he had wasn't the one he wanted, but if she was tracking another beast too, then—it could work! His quest wouldn't be for naught! All he had to do was convince her to help him and he was set! He contemplated for a few more moments before making the decision.

"Hey Shyvana, I may have a deal for you…"


	5. Burnout

Shyvana groaned, as she splashed cold water on her face, beginning her morning ritual.

Spending the night in the wilderness was not something she was new to, but it certainly was the first time she was forced to sleep with her arms bound and her feet shackled. Well, for the first half of the night at least.

Her captor had apparently deemed her a non-issue halfway through the night and released her from her bonds, but her wrists and ankles were still sore from the whole episode. She had also seemingly gained the "privilege" of sharing a tent with the Highney.

That was what she decided to call him, His Royal Highney, or Highney for short.

Stuck on his horse so high, she could see his muscular buttocks from a mile away.

Boy, had it been awkward in the morning when she'd woken to find him using her as his living body pillow. She was quite certain that the Highney had delegated a very specific blanket-less corner of the tent to her under the order that she "not try anything"—yet there he was, in her corner, undutifully snoring in her ear.

Needless to say, the bags under her eyes were matched only by those the packhorses carried. The entire castle may as well have been packed onto those pitiful creatures.

Shyvana turned swiftly as a hand descended on her shoulder.

"What—"

It was the prince in all his sparkling splendor.

Apparently _someone_ had not shared a night of tormented sleep. Managing to look so alert and awake in his nightwear should have been a crime, and the way that his hair fell perfectly in place—she knew many women who would be envious.

"Five minutes 'til we ride."

Curses.

She hated riding.

The steeds were wary of her, for good reason, and she had never learned to mount and dismount, and so resigned herself to the embarrassment of having to be lifted onto her horse by the Highney himself. Just as she'd been his "prisoner" yesterday, she had become his "watch" today. They were now supposedly collaborating as partners, but the looks his men gave her were not reassuring in the least.

Nonetheless, she needed his help. Jarvan IV would help her gain her revenge, and he would get all the glory of slaying a dragon. The plan was so flawless she hated it.

It was her vendetta and she should have been able to complete the task, if not for one thing that only her father and her father's killer knew; Shyvana was unable to use her dragon form. It wasn't that she hadn't tried, she had on multiple occasions. Every day she longed for the form of the majestic being, the ability to soar in the skies and roam as she pleased.

Unfortunately, it was all but a wish. Her father had never taught her how to attain the form, preferring her to live hidden among humans without incident. Naturally, this left her without a way to unleash the beast within. The only ones who could teach her now were the other dragons, but dragonkind hated her, and would kill her on sight. She was the very first half-dragon, after all, and the elders were wary of the destruction that her human half could embody.

Thus, it was in her best interest to accept the prince's proposal. Not that she had a choice; the alternative was to return to the Demacian capital as a prisoner and spent the rest of her days on display at the National Zoo.

For a Knight of Justice, the Highney was extremely dirty and manipulative in his tactics. Either way, they both needed each other to complete their quests, and the faster the whole ordeal was dealt with, the faster Shyvana could be rid of the pests.

What she would do after, she wasn't quite sure, but one thing was clear.

She wouldn't allow herself to be compromised ever again.

It was far too humiliating.


	6. Golden Aegis

AN: Thanks for the R&R guys, I really appreciate it! I have quite a few chapters written out, but it takes me a while to motivate myself into actually typing them out, hehe~. Feel free to let me know if I have made any mistakes in my grammar! Also, remember that aegis is "ee-jiss", not "ay-jiss", so if you hear someone saying it like the latter, correct them for awareness! :p

* * *

They were nearing the dragon's lair. He could feel it.

For a week now, Shyvana had been leading them toward their prey with her heightened senses and innate ability to sense her kin. At first he'd been wary; the Halfling could have been wasting their time, waiting for an opportunity to escape, but now it was apparent that this was the real deal.

Signs of the dragon's residence could be seen clearly now, with broken brush and the unmistakable smell of carnage. Apparently their prey no longer cared to conceal its presence, strong enough to defeat the average adventurer. This much was evident by the sheer number of skulls found littering the forest—a few past every bend, cleverly hidden, but easily identified.

For a second, Jarvan wondered why the beast bothered to stay in the area at all.

"He's gravely wounded," said Shyvana, as if she had read his mind.

"My father was no weakling."

She pointed at a large brown spot on a nearby rock that could have easily been mistaken for mildew.

"Dragon's blood. We shouldn't be far now."

Sure enough, the group soon came upon a ravine at the edge of the forest that separated Kumungu from the Fyrone Flats.

"He probably hasn't noticed my presence yet, but we'll have to deal with him quickly. His pain hasn't numbed all of his senses," noted the half dragon, as she wrinkled her nose.

"He's not here right now, but he will be by nightfall with today's catch," she continued.

"Alright," proclaimed Jarvan, "we'll set up camp here and strike at nightfall."

Jarvan and his men quickly set up camp at the base of a large rock, and set about preparing for battle, sharpening his lance and polishing his armor. They had to be in perfect condition, after all.

He didn't want any bards back at home singing about how he and his men had defeated a dragon with their collection of rusted barnyard tools. No, every battle was for glory, and he was vain enough to keep a polishing cloth in the breast pocket of his everyday tunic.

As he set about his preparations, Jarvan watched with the corner of his eye as the dragoness sharpened her nails. In a way, he envied the Halfling for her ability to skin a rabbit with her bare hands; he would give anything to have reflexes like hers. He had been trained at the Royal Academy all his life by the most elite, but the movements of his new sparring partner were unparalleled.

To the untrained eye, she appeared to be any other broad, with long red locks well kept, and a figure that could please any man. But Jarvan knew better. Despite appearing unarmed and helpless, he knew there was a shiv braided into her tresses, and in her pack laid a curious pair of gauntlets shaped as dragonets.

The only things that betrayed her dragon heritage were the fact that she had two small nubs—presumably horns—growing out the top of her head, and that her eyes flashed and glistened in the dark like those of an animal. If not for those two small details, Jarvan was very sure the dragoness could have lived a long and pleasant life amongst humans, and even married, had children… Jarvan shook his head.

The last thought did not sit well with him, for some reason. He decided to pursue another line of thought instead; with her abilities, she could become a skilled huntress or bounty hunter, maybe one of his knights… Jarvan stood abruptly.

Why was he thinking those thoughts?

Sure, it was within his jurisdiction to allow outsiders into the ranks, but he barely knew her, save for her sob story. Nevertheless, he felt strangely attached to his new acquaintance. She didn't seem to have any purpose in life other than vengeance. Maybe he'd offer her a position in his personal guard. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done so, and the citizens wouldn't be too surprised, he hoped.

Well, maybe.

He needed to think about it.

After the battle…Maybe.

Jarvan returned to his senses to find the dragoness blatantly staring at him. Someway through his mental dialogue, he had managed to drop his armor in a pile of horse dung, and was standing on a fallen log with polishing cloth in hand—for no apparent reason.

"Is…everything alright?" Shyvana asked, slowly, judging him with her eyes.

"Y-yeah," stammered Jarvan, as he fumbled to recover, "I uh, didn't want the beast to get a whiff of my scent, and I was just standing here to see if I could… see him flying in?"

Shyvana raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, instead turning back to sharpening her nails.

"Whatever, just don't stand too close to me during the battle," she said after a while, "I don't know if you're trying to kill him with your stench, but it's getting in my eyes. I need to talk before the battle, so make sure you haven't completely covered yourself in manure before then."

With that, she rose, and left a bumbling Jarvan to fix the mess he had made of his equipment.

As evening approached, the camp was greeted by the shriek of a dragon, followed by its tattered silhouette.

Jarvan and his men were ready, having taken positions in the ravine hours prior. When it landed they were there, poised to strike in their tri-formation, prince and the center with his lance aimed at the murderous head.


End file.
